This may be an unconventional "ride report" for the Riv group -- I have no photos to share or exotic places to describe -- but I think it is a story worth telling, if only because it is so bizarre, and I wonder if anyone else has had similar experiences on the road or any insight into the phenomenon.
Yesterday I went on an urban ride near my apartment, a loop traveled by countless cyclists simply because it is one of the few places on LA's westside where you can open it up without being detained by too many stoplights. The ride starts out with a gradually rising false flat, which I treat as a warmup, spinning at a relaxed 18-19 mph. I came up behind a woman crouched over the aero bars on a time trial bike. I maintained a distance of 6 feet or so, waiting for a break in the automobile traffic to our left in order to pass her. Before that happened, however, she looked back and yelled, "are you out for a free ride today, mister? Go do your own training ride!" Perplexed, I asked her to repeat, which she did, this time peppering her phrases with a few F-bombs and an injunction to stay away from her because she doesn't even know me and doesn't want me drafting off her. What? Drafting? Come again? I wasn't drafting, I explain, but rather was at least 6 feet behind and waiting for a safe moment to pass. And what does it matter if you don't know me? I don't get it. More insults and F-bombs followed. And at this point she pulled to the side and waved me by, cussing at me as I passed. Letting her rage get the best of me, I lost my cool and returned an F-bomb or two, upping the ante with that special C-word women generally don't like to hear. With adrenaline rushing, I hammered away angrily in order to put a healthy distance between myself and someone seemingly so unstable. But the separation didn't last for long, as we both eventually were detained by a stoplight. As she pulled up behind me I turned around and asked, with the most polite voice I could muster, what her problem was and what she thought I was doing wrong. Again she unfurled a chain of expletives. But aside from the unmistakably unambiguous F-bombs she was dropping, I could not entirely understand her rant through her rather thick German accent. (For all I know she may have been lacing English and German together into a linguistic hodgepodge of insults.) At one point, however, I was able to make out the following: "I don't want to get in an accident because you don't know how to ride a bike." I ask her what makes her think I don't know how to ride a bike. And she says, "just look at you, I can tell. And look at your bike. It's a joke. You are not a serious rider, you can tell from your bike. And I don't want to get in a crash because you don't know how to ride a bike." And for good measure, she punctuated this assertion with a couple variations on the F-bomb. Just how I would cause her to crash by riding 6 feet behind her was not clear to me, nor did she succeed in explaining whatever rationale she was following. Now, mind you, neither my attire nor my Romulus are what might pass as standard Rivendell equipment. I wear lycra bibs, a cycling jersey, and Sidi road shoes. My bike has skinny tires, Campy Ergo shift levers, an outboard bearing double crankset, a racy titanium-railed saddle, Speedplay pedals, and has no fenders or luggage. To my eyes, it is a road bike more than a "country bike," and if I swapped out the frame for something carbon, there would be virtually no distinction between my equipment and that of your typical club rider. But apparently to her eyes, the fact that my frame is lugged steel and has a quill stem is indication enough that it isn't a "serious" bike and I am not a "serious rider." I am certainly accustomed to gentle ribbing from the carbon crowd on the club rides I go on. But their comments are more often than not underhanded compliments, e.g. "if you're keeping up with us on that old bucket of bolts, just imagine if you had a full carbon rig!" But no one could mistake this triathlete's comments for a compliment, underhand or otherwise. As I rode away on the green light, adrenaline again rushing, a few similar encounters I've had with triathletes came freshly to mind. None of the previous incidents were so abrasive or abusive -- F-bombs were not lobbed. But they were unpleasant encounters nonetheless, in which the triathletes went ballistic at the thought that I might be drafting off them (which I never was in fact doing) and commanded me to get away from them immediately. Is there something in the triathlete's water that makes them so patently nutty when it comes to sharing the road? Has anyone else experienced some form of triathlete road rage? Are there any triathletes on this list who can lend some perspective to what seems to me to be utterly inexplicable behavior? Aaron --~--~---------~--~----~------------~-------~--~----~ You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "RBW Owners Bunch" group. To post to this group, send email to rbw-owners-bunch@googlegroups.com To unsubscribe from this group, send email to rbw-owners-bunch+unsubscr...@googlegroups.com For more options, visit this group at http://groups.google.com/group/rbw-owners-bunch?hl=en -~----------~----~----~----~------~----~------~--~---
